The Night Watch
by ScribeofHeroes
Summary: Batman guards the least protected citizens of Gotham City. They later return the favor.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own The Batman, his parents Thomas and Martha Wayne, Tahlia and Ras al Ghul, Gotham City, or even Andrea. This piece is for entertainment purposes only.**

**This story is not set in any particular movie, comic, or television series universe. The Batman of this story is brooding and gritty, but also a gentleman. The story is set in the first year after Batman's debut in Gotham. Most of its citizens don't yet know of him, or believe in him. The neighborhood this story is set in, Gotham's "Red Light District," and the characters in it are my own creations. **

**As the rating implies this story deals with very mature themes. However, I allude rather than go into explicit detail about them. I do briefly describe suggestive actions. There is also a little violence and blood letting. **

Bruce Wayne, six year-old, amateur detective snuck through the garden. His eyes scanned the shrubbery. The detective always found the clue in places like this. He scanned and scanned. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the grass and dirt. Alfred would be grateful he was wearing his play clothes, which were actually meant to be played in.

Then he found it, something he had to show his mom and dad! He scooped it up and rushed in a side door, through the halls, down the steps, and up to the study door. He threw it open and rushed in.

"Mom! Dad!"

His parents were there, arms intertwined around each other. His mother's blouse had its buttons undone and was slipping from her shoulders. At the sight of her son, Martha's face turned redder than her hair. Thomas Wayne swept his wife behind him turning around himself while he did so. His back to his son, Thomas called over his shoulder.

"Do you need something, Bruce?"

"I wanted to show you what I found in the garden," he called back. His mother's voice came from behind his father. Her petite frame could not be seen behind his father's taller, broader form.

"Why don't you go show Alfred dear? We'll be out to see it soon."

"And close the door behind you, will you son," Thomas asked. "Your mother and I are trying to discuss something very boring and don't want to bother you with it."

Boring indeed! Bruce could tell by his parent's expressions they had been doing something exciting and hiding it. He'd gone out, sat down on the stone steps outside, and sulked at the fact they were having fun without him. They never even asked to see what he found when they finally came out.

. . .

Almost twenty years later, Batman, adult vigilante guarded Gotham's "Red Light district." It was an area known for its unsolved murders. Some men tried to get for free what they couldn't or didn't think they should have to pay for. Victims of these thefts sometimes lived through it, other times they did not. The highest murder rate in the entire blood thirsty, gang ruled city of Gotham was right here. Most took place between three and six A.M. when the women left the clubs and came back to their apartments. Few cases were given more than a half-hearted investigation.

Bruce wondered if in the right circumstances these women could have been, or might still become, like his mother. How differently would history have had to play out, for them to have been hiding in bedrooms or closets from bright eyed, healthy children with men who loved them enough to pay the full price of life-long commitment? He wondered how many dreams of such things had died with the women murdered here. How many children never born, or never known or cared about, by their father's?

From his perch atop the neighborhood's tallest apartment building in, he watched what transpired on the streets and fire-escapes below. Bruce knew he was a sought after man. Here the women wanted money. The men wanted a pleasant experience with a half way decent looking companion. The women who chased him wanted both. He pretended to like it.

The true woman of his life was the old, broken, faded, lady of poor repute, known as Gotham City. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death did they part he had committed himself to her.

The vow had not been mutual. Still, he would entertain no rivals for his devotion to her, until she needed him no more. Though it was far more likely he would die in her service first.

A woman stepped out of her apartment and onto the fire escape. She was wearing a negligée almost as bright a shade of red as her lips. Soon a tendril of smoke rose into the night air along with the scent of burning cigarette. A man wandered the street beneath her. She called out to him.

With her hair haloed and soft curves outlined by the light behind her, she must have seemed pretty. If she was, it must have been her night off at the club. More likely she had grown too old and wrinkled for the clubs, which men often entered sober and looking for the best. Instead she got the drifters who had already had too much and left the best behind. She also probably kept her room dimly lit, and got paid up front.

The man entered the building after she told him her apartment number. Batman wandered if he would think her worth the money he paid her, afterward.

_They're a microcosm of Gotham, _he thought. _Dressed and over made-up, in an effort to hide the true poverty and despair underneath. Trying desperately to gain money and attention from the blatantly or secretly corrupt, in an effort to make it seem like they don't mind the harsh looks and words of more 'decent' folk. _

Through his night vision binoculars, he saw a woman leaving a club. She entered an alley. Her steps were slow and heavy. A car, parked a little ways off, came to life like a stalking beast. It pulled around and drove in the direction she had headed.

It could be a coincidence, but . . . . He started heading in that direction. When he got close to where he thought she must be, he heard shouts. The Batman raced along the rooftops, to the aid of a Gothamite he'd sworn to protect and honor, though she never even heard him say it, or likely believed any man ever would.

. . .

The woman turned the corner and got a few feet before the fastest man grabbed her. In the ensuing struggle he tore off her shirt and took away her small gun. The other four men caught up and began to laugh. The first man threw her into the arms of another who used a knife to cut a strap of her bra. That man then shoved her to the ground.

The third man approached her. He took a few steps closer toward his prey, holding a knife. A soft whirring sound, not heard above the chuckles, cut through the night air. Suddenly, the approaching man gripped his arm, clenched his teeth, and said a foul word. He took his hand away and looked at the side his wrist. It was bloody.

A straight, thin, slit had been made in the sleeves of his jacket and shirt. A bloody cut along the surface of his skin showed through. Looking up, he saw a black, razor edged, piece of metal sticking out of the wall, exactly even with his cut.

The other men gasped behind him. He turned to his left and glanced up. A large, black-garbed form, planted its feet in his gut. The force sent him sprawling downward into a pile of garbage bags. The figure straitened and growled down at him.

"Leave!"

The man who took the woman's gun lifted it. Another batarang flashed out from the black gloved hand. He dropped the tiny weapon. The two remaining men rushed The Dark Knight. Pressing both hands together, Batman drove them upwards into the jaw of the first man to reach him. He ducked under the punch of the next man, grabbed his arm and flipped him over his back, tossing him on top of the first man. The Batman growled at them again.

"I said, _'leave!'_"

After getting to their feet, all the men did.

The woman had crawled into a corner formed by the brick wall and a dumpster. She had drawn up herself up into the fetal position. Her upper body was hidden behind her legs.

She was not crying. In fact, she was silent and still. Her forehead rested on her knees. Her long, loose, dirty hair fell over her face and form. Her body was rigid.

The Batman glanced at her after watching her attackers flee into the night. Then he studied the clothes strewn on the ground. They would no longer stay on, let alone cover her.

He walked toward the woman. She didn't flee, or speak, or even look up. He stopped when he came within a few feet of her.

. . .

The woman cringed away, wrapping her arms more tightly around herself. She sensed someone nearby. Yet, she heard nothing after the heavy footsteps stopped. That was somehow more frightening than what she expected to hear. It did not feel as if the presence was either approaching or retreating. In curiosity she half opened one of her tightly shut eyes, and dared to peek out.

A long, black, piece of cloth hung in the air about a foot from her face. She looked up. It was being held by a large hand, sheathed in a thick, black glove.

Both of her eyes snapped open. She moved slightly to look up at the rest of the individual the hand was attached to. He was the strangest person she'd ever seen, and she had seen quite a few strange people.

He was standing over her. Not crouched over her like a monster ready to spring. He looked more like a doorman standing by. Instead of a door he was holding his cape.

Her gaze darted from the cape to his face and back again. Then her hand shot out and snatched it from him. She wrapped herself in it. Thrown over and around her shoulders, it hung down to her feet. Now hidden behind it she grew bold enough to stand and speak with an accusatory tone.

"What are you?"

The blank expression on his partially exposed face didn't change as he answered in a low, deep voice.

"The night-watch."

She blinked. His answer was short, to-the-point, and completely ludicrous. The woman's face twisted into a sneering smile. The effect was less humorous than heart-breaking. A sound that could have been mistaken for gut-wrenching sobs bubbled from her mouth. This continued for two minutes. Another minute and a half passed before she found enough breath to form words.

"Really? What do you want for your services?"

Again his facial expression didn't change. Nothing, but his mouth moved as he replied in the same voice he'd used before.

"I volunteered."

Another bitter chuckle sounded through the dark night. The held in panic and nervous energy from the attack were finding an outlet in the laughter. All but the bravest among men and womankind, at hearing it, would have quickly turned and run the other direction.

"Volunteered? You just volunteer to dress up like this and wonder around knocking guys on their (censored) who try to 'get some,' for free, from a girl like me?"

In the same voice, The Dark Knight replied.

"Yes."

Now the woman's eyes flew open. Her jaw dropped. A glow of stunned wonder came over her dark, cynical face. For a moment she could not find her breath, let alone utter a sound. The Batman's own face, finally, changed expression.

He flinched, as if someone had pocked a small, but sharp needle into him. Then the woman spoke again. "You're serious!"

He nodded. If you listened carefully, you might have heard the slightest note, of the very driest kind of humor in his voice. "I usually am."

The next syllable that came from between the woman's lips was the utterance of those astounded by a sight they had never seen in their lives or dreamt of seeing.

"Wow!"

After a moment of reflection, she looked up and asked the obvious question.

"So . . . , how does this work?"

"I think I should walk you home in order to make sure you arrive safely."

The look of a harassed cat came over the woman's entire body. She drew into herself and hunched over. All the old demons of cynicism and anger came rushing back to her soul in droves. Her voice was a strangled growl. It also had a note of triumph as if to say, _I knew it. I knew this couldn't be what it seemed. I'm not an inexperienced child._

"Oh. And what happens when we get there?"

The Batman, without taking a step backward, still managed to shift his weight, in such a way as to give her more personal space. He felt as if he was trying to rescue a trapped, terrified animal. The best thing to do in that situation is to not handle them directly, but guide them toward freedom. Encourage them here and discourage them there. Let them find their own way.

He moved his eyes from a direct gaze into hers, to just slightly above them, neither making full eye contact, nor looking at anything below her eyes, but not seeming to ignore her either. His tone was not exactly humble, but it was soft and quiet. It was a voice between equals, of mutual understanding and professional cordiality. The tone a police officer has when he pulls up to your broken down car, parked along the shoulder of the highway, and asks if you require assistance.

"I'd appreciate it, if once you get back to your apartment, you put something else on and give me back my cape. If you throw it out a window, I'll have no need to follow you inside the building. All I need to know is what side of the building your apartment window is on."

Immediately the bitterness and anger fell away again and the glow came back again in full force. Her voice was humble and soft, yet still had a slight shrillness from held back tears and hesitant, clinging, doubt.

"That's it?"

Another nod, another brief answer.

"That's it."

The woman appeared to wake up from a dream and realized she needn't just stand where she was any longer. She remembered she'd a goal in mind before the whole event occurred.

"Oh! I guess I'll lead the way then."

They stepped into the darkness. Batman could have run along the rooftops, keeping up with and keeping an eye on her from above, but instead he walked beside her, carefully matching his steps with hers. He had a long stride normally. They walked a few feet apart, like acquaintances discussing the show they'd just seen together, both bored to tears with the subject.

The circumstance could not have been more different though. He kept his distance out of respect. She gave him space, because she felt, separated from him somehow. Not simply because she did not know him. She was used to boldly approaching men she didn't know. But he felt like a different kind of man than the ones she was used to.

Somehow, he _still_ seemed to fit into this world, her world, the realm of far too many like herself. It was as if all the bitter cries of all the women who lived or ever had lived here had been distilled into a dark guardian, more phantom than flesh. It felt like you could say or do something to break the spell and make him vanish. His dark and sober demeanor fit the general ambience of despair in their surroundings. She also sensed he couldn't exist in it without changing it. She felt a little in awe of him, and so wanted to keep at a point where she could view all of him at once, the way one steps back to look at a piece of art.

The woman also noticed how strange the fabric that she was wrapped in looked and felt. Tough, she rubbed a long fingernail along it and realized it would never tear however long she did so. Yet it was so light, she barely knew she wore it. So black was it, it seemed to reach out and absorb the light around it. It was a piece of him and he had . . . loaned it, to her. Beside her, without it, the Batman's form was like that of a statue of some great, ancient, deity, meant to be the personification of the ideal male form.

"Are you sure you don't want to come in?"

Part of her wanted him to, part of her did not. All of her wanted to hear his answer.

"Yes."

She didn't want to sound pathetic, but she also wanted to know the truth.

"Is it because I'm not pretty enough for you?"

He shook his head slowly.

"No. I appreciate beauty, but I don't make choices based on it. You don't lack it even if I did. I mean to watch these streets all night and I have no desire to be another man who takes something from you before leaving you alone."

She smiled sadly and with more joy and gentleness than she had for a long time.

"You really are an old fashioned knight in shining armor aren't you?"

He surprised her by shaking his head. He knew more of the true history of knights than most.

"Some Knights in shining armor were the same as the men who attacked you and many men who are _not_ like them, never wore armor."

She smiled. Fingering her covering . . .

"Or a cape?"

"Or a cape."

"Whatever they wore, there aren't any left but you."

"There are a few more that I know of, in this very city, a few more than that scattered over the world."

She glanced at him, but then turned back and continued, her tone cynical and sharp-edged with sarcasm.

"Not nearly enough, not compared to the other kind this _"fine"_ city's filled with."

"No . . . not nearly enough."

He answered her with a great deal of sadness in his voice and a note of her own bitterness and cynicism. It made her look up at him. His shoulders had slumped. For a moment, she felt sorrier for him than for herself.

When they got to her apartment building, she said . . . "My window faces the West."

"I'll wait beneath the fire escape."

Then the glow was gone. A new thought had occurred to her. She fingered the cape around her shoulders more purposefully. A sly look lit up her eyes. A wicked note of humor surfaced as she spoke.

"You know, I might try to keep this cape. Its special isn't it? Someone will give me a nice wad of green for it. I'd have to be an idiot, or at least a lot better person than you'll find in this place, to not at least try. Not everyone ignores opportunities like you."

He didn't grow angry or afraid. He looked at her, just above the eyes again. His face became serious, though not threatening. His was voice low and flat.

"You could."

The woman, impressed at his . . . lack of reaction, probed further.

"Would you come after me for it?"

With what the woman was beginning to think of as his trademark simplistic, brusque, and blunt, honesty he answered. "No. I'd track down whoever you sold it to."

The wicked light came back into her eyes. Her mouth twisted into a smirk and her voice became a low, triumphant drawl. "So it'd just be their loss?"

Now he finally shifted his gaze just one degree lower, so he could look directly into her eyes, directly into her soul. She shrank back just slightly, a little afraid, though of what she wasn't sure. She no longer believed he'd hurt her, not physically anyway. He did his best to make his gaze as gentle as possible. No threat, no anger did he wish to, or end up communicating. However, there was a note of sad solemnity in his voice.

"You could say that, but then . . . some would say otherwise."

Then he turned and disappeared into the surrounding shadows. The woman quickly stepped inside, suddenly feeling more vulnerable to the evil that seemed always present in this place without him there.

His gaze pierced the darkness, as he waited, taking in the sight of her building of residence. The fire escapes on the West side of the building were obviously not even _close_ to safety code. The Batman wasn't certain she would toss out his cape. He'd wait though. He'd told her he would, and his cape really shouldn't fall into certain hands.

He would have to track it down if she hocked it. Thankfully, he doubted her usual contacts would know how to take full advantage of it. He was not sorry he'd given it to her. There was no honor in making a woman march half naked beside you through the streets, or even alone through the halls of her apartment building while you wore more than was necessary to cover yourself. Even if what you gave her was a piece of very expensive, advanced, experimental cloth.

As he looked up, a form with familiar, wild, dirty hair, wrapped in a bulky looking bathrobe, stepped out on the rickety fire escape. Then a long, black, piece of cloth drifted downward thrown from one of the forms hands.

Madge watched as the now familiar arm whipped out and seized his returned cape, in a movement as fast as lightning hitting the earth. Then it vanished back into the longer, but not blacker, shadows. Even after it disappeared, she continued to look down from her perch, trying to decide if she was more surprised at him or herself.

She turned back into her room and took out her sketch book. There was pitifully little she could do these days, to fight back against her hard circumstances and those who delighted in them being hard for her. She had one power though, that her peers did not. It comforted her even more than her scotch bottle and cigarettes.

When she was a little girl, she had learned to draw. She had always had talent. She'd never believed she could make a living at it, few artists can. Yet, if the right people had seen them, she might not have to continue in her current line of work. She didn't know this.

The characters she drew were always dark, frightening demons, with familiar faces . . . , almost always. Tonight she drew something a little different, a dark, but pure intentioned angel. He was dressed like a demon, but had a compassionate face. Partly hidden in shadow, partly exposed to the light, he looked down with gentle eyes. He held out a long, black piece of cloth, wide enough to cover her nakedness. When she was finished, she took a certain pride she hadn't felt in a long time, while writing, "_The Night Watch"_ over it.

**Please read and review. If you don't like this story be specific, but polite about why. Please remember I warned you, above, of the violence and suggestion in the content.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I do not own Batman/Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, Dr. Leslie Maurin Thomkins, or Gotham City. The other characters mentioned in this chapter, and the neighborhood it is set in, the Red Light District, are my own creations. **

**Violence and sexual suggestion are present in this chapter as they were in the first.**

In the darkness of coming back to consciousness, Batman heard the sound of women crying. He also felt an aching along his back, the backs of his arms and legs, and the back of his head. The smell of damp blacktop and cheap perfume surrounded him.

So, he was lying on a damp road, surrounded by women. He'd likely fallen there. That was not nearly enough information.

Batman didn't move. He couldn't appear alive yet. Before he drew attention to himself, he needed to piece together what had happened. How had he gotten here?

. . .

During the last month or so, members of Gotham City crime organizations had become a far greater presence in the city's Red Light District. Mob gunman had begun spending entire nights outside its bars, clubs, apartments, etc. They stood on street corners and in alleys. Their hands were always near or in pockets. Their eyes were always scanning the tops of buildings. They never attempted to gain the attention of the locals. They were after something else, someone else. Batman didn't need to overhear some of these men betting on which of them would get the job done, to know it was him.

The Red Light District's residents' response to the influx of gunman into their neighborhood had been interesting. They always approached these particular men, even offered services for free. The men would disappear with these women. They usually didn't reappear before Batman left near dawn.

More overheard conversations revealed the men's guns were often gone or empty when they left themselves. If Batman had had a little more faith in his fellow human beings, he would have believed the prostitutes were protecting him. He did allow it was a possibility.

Batman began to remember what had occurred this night. One gunman had grown tired of waiting. He was a member of the South Side Cartel, known throughout the city for his perfect aim. He had a cold, wide grin he'd worn when he'd begun standing on the corners and in the alleyways of the Red Light District. He'd probably expected to shoot the Bat within the first week.

When this gunman was not committing crimes, the Dark Knight avoided him. When the gunman threatened others, Batman disarmed him from the darkness with a batarang before showing himself. Batman didn't plan to change this strategy in The Red Light District.

The gunman had found himself the center of attention from the most distracting natives of the Red Light District every night he was there. At first he'd enjoyed it. When he realized the pattern of his guns and bullets disappearing after these encounters, his wide, cold grin had become a flushed, deep scowl. That night he'd exploded.

He'd smiled at her, when she'd approached him. He'd continued smiling, and leaning against the brick wall of her apartment building, as she'd leaned into him, and raised her mouth to whisper in his ear. He wrapped his left arm around her waist, and drew her closer to him. Then he tightened his hold.

She'd gasped as he squeezed out her breath. Then she laughingly asked him to "ease up." He didn't answer. Instead he'd begun to march into the street, dragging her with him.

She'd started choking out questions. He didn't answer, didn't look at her. He just strode on with his gaze fixed on a particular spot.

She clawed at his arm, trying to pull it loose. When he only squeezed harder she'd begun screaming. Everyone in earshot had turned to stare. He'd become the only one there not looking at her.

Maintaining his silence, the gunman had dragged her out to a spot visible from Batman's favorite vantage point in the area. Then the mob gunman drew out a revolver, and pressed the end of its cold muzzle to his distraction's pretty temple. He'd shouted so loud his hostage had winced, and Batman heard and understood every word.

"GET OUT HERE BAT! OR I SWEAR I'LL BLOW HER HEAD OFF!

A batarang would have jostled the hand, causing it to squeeze the trigger. A sneak attack would have done the same. A smoke pellet would likely have caused him to retaliate against his hostage. Any startled movement by the gunman could have caused the trigger to be pulled, and a life not his own snuffed out. It wasn't guaranteed she'd live if he did as the mobster asked. It was clear she wouldn't if he did nothing. The South Side Cartel carried out their threats. That was their business strategy.

As Batman paused to consider these things, the gunman had started counting. He hadn't even said what number he was counting to. Batman shot his grappling gun at a building across from him. Then he swung down towards the gunman and his hostage.

_Alfred and Lucius will blame themselves. Leslie is going to shout "I told you so," to them, because she won't be able to say it to me. They need to get out before my mask is removed._

The gunman had reached "nine" when the glow of a streetlamp illuminated his target. Batman remembered the light blinding him, the sound of a gunshot, and a corresponding pain radiating through his chest. He didn't remember letting go of his grappling gun. He didn't remember falling or landing. He must have blacked out from the shock.

The first shot shouldn't have been fatal. The gun had been a long way off, and he'd been wearing his armor. But the mobster should have taken the opportunity to make sure.

Batman took a slow, deep breath. He winced. He was definitely alive. The bullet in the armor had left a bruise in his chest.

The gunman might have shot him in the chest at closer quarters after the initial shot, but maybe not. Either way, the flesh didn't feel pierced. His back, the backs of his arms and legs, and the back of his head also felt bruised, but not broken. That was to be expected after dropping onto tarmac from a good five to six feet above it, even with the armor. Actually, the armor had performed remarkably well. He needed to congratulate Lucius if he saw him again.

He'd felt no head wound at all. No bullet was lodged in his brain. Even his mask was still in place. All these things were unexpected reliefs. Unless his attacker had realized he wasn't dead, and wanted it that way.

Another way the South Side Cartel did business was making examples, usually utilizing pain and humiliation. Their less important enemies bodies were usually found naked, bruised, and bullet riddled. Perhaps the shooter and others were simply waiting for him to awake before getting started.

He listened harder. The sounds of a Gotham night near the bay area, car and boat horns mostly, were barely discernible over the crying he'd awoken to. That was all that was audibly discernible. He opened his eyes. The eye coverings of his mask would keep this unnoticed.

The former hostage was kneeling over him. Her cheeks were flushed to a painfully deep crimson, and not just from her unnecessarily thick blush. Two black rivers were running through the channels of her face. Her eyelashes were soaked. She could have been sobbing uncontrollably as long as he'd been out. Was she crying because she thought him already dead, or because he was as good as dead?

She seemed unharmed. There had to be a dark bruise along her bare waist he couldn't see from this angle though. That would heal if she lived long enough.

She was alive at least. He couldn't have been sure she would be. Giving in to the gunman's demands had guaranteed nothing. It still didn't. Where was their attacker?

Then Batman realized she couldn't possibly be the cause of all the noise he was hearing. He was surrounded by many distinct sobs, from nearly hysterically high-pitched, to deep, but still feminine gutturals. Various types of sniffs were joining the symphony as well. He could not see the forms to go with the other voices without turning his head. He wasn't ready to do that yet.

For a few moments he tried to see out of the corners of his eyes. He saw nothing but his mask. He needed to fix that if he got back to the cave.

The realization he had to trust someone crashed over him. A familiar irritation burned in the back of his mind and inside his gut. He stopped himself from tightening his jaw, or clenching his hands into fists.

He allowed himself to rely on his trusted circle when he must. He didn't like it. It meant they were connected to him and his less than legal activities. If he was discovered, their connections to him would almost certainly be. It bothered him, but it couldn't be helped.

Alfred knew almost everything. He'd been there with him, or had been checking in on him, throughout almost everything. Lucius' mind was an important resource. It also made him nearly impossible to fool. Leslie had figured it out. He should have known she would. At least she wouldn't be shocked if Alfred ever had to call her in for her medical expertise.

At this moment, what irked Batman the most was how much he needed them right now. His goal was to become less, not more dependent upon them. The second thing that irked him right then was none of them were present.

That satisfied more than irked him actually. Their geographical distance gave them a chance to escape whatever happened to him. Ensuring _he_ escaped his enemies' plans though required gaining assistance from someone.

His only option was nearby. The fact she was crying over what she may be assuming was his corpse, reassured him somewhat. Still, he found himself wishing that it was the first woman he'd rescued here.

She could have taken advantage of his kindness towards her. She'd insinuated so to him. But she hadn't. That was reliable evidence you could trust someone. This woman would have to do though.

She was a girl really. Her age was most certainly under eighteen years. That bothered him in more than one way.

He moved his hand, just a degree, and touched her right knee. As he'd feared, she started at the touch. Her sobs stopped. Her eyes flew open and riveted on his face. The crying sounds around both of them lessened. Her reaction had not been unnoticed.

He froze. He might as well not even ask what he'd been about to. For about thirty seconds nothing happened. Finally, he spoke softly and without moving any part of him that wasn't necessary to utter the words.

_"__Are any of the gunmen within seeing or shooting distance?"_

The girl crouched over him didn't speak. She hadn't moved since he touched her. Her eyes remained as wide as quarters and didn't blink.

Another voice answered though, in a whisper no less. He appreciated that. It came from above his head and a little to his right. The words hissed out and nearly ran together in haste.

_"__Not now! But he'll be back with the entire operation soon!"_

If the feminine voice was telling the truth, the situation was better than he dared hoped. She might not be. He needed to move fast to take advantage of the potential opportunity, though. It seemed the most logical thing to do.

He raised himself up on his elbows, sat up, and drew his legs beneath him. It hurt, but not unbearably. He didn't even wince. A weakness shouldn't be exposed to any, but the most trusted. All others should be shown only the unshakable mask.

The women crowded around him drew back, like a ripple in a wine glass. As he rose to his feet, he took in his surroundings. He was surprised at the sheer number of the onlookers. There were at least fifty of them. They seemed to range in age from younger than sixteen to pushing sixty. Every woman who lived in the neighborhood seemed to be gathered there. If he had allowed himself to dwell on that, he _might_ have been flattered, but most likely not. Batman did not gain pleasure from popularity.

At the moment, what mattered most to him most was that there were indeed no other men, let alone gunmen, in sight. No one had taken another shot at him. He saw and heard no one drawing or aiming a weapon. He began to locate the best escape route.

Before he could leave, one woman in the crowd spoke. "How?"

Batman thought about telling them the truth, for three seconds. No, that wasn't necessary. If even one, either intentionally or unintentionally, repeated it in the hearing of an enemy, or in the hearing of someone who would, it could only do his mission damage.

Once your enemy knew how not to attempt to kill you, they put their effort into more effective measures. He kept his answer brief and unclear, but not misleading. "Trade secret."

He shot his line onto the roof of his watch spot. Before he could make it draw him up to it, another woman spoke. He turned to her. It was the woman he'd first rescued.

"Will you be all right?"

Her face was a mask, much like his own. Her voice was masked to, expressionless and direct. He glanced directly at her. Then he swept his gaze over the other tear stained faces.

"Don't waste any more tears on me tonight."

He pushed the retracting button on his grappling hook. Then, like a real bat, he flew off into the shadows. The crowd of women followed his ascent until the darkness hid him from them.

. . .

He went to a different vantage point. There the darkness made him nearly invisible to the eye from beneath or around it. It also couldn't be scaled without climbing gear. It was not as near all the hot spots of trouble in the area as the place he'd been before, but it was near enough to the place he'd been. He could see it clearly through his binoculars.

He watched through them as a group of men approached the place he'd been laid out five minutes and forty seconds ago. The area was otherwise empty now. The woman had dispersed and rushed to their apartments. Likely they had locked their doors behind them.

If any of the men tried to break in, to shake them down for information, he would have to interfere. He would not show himself again that night if they didn't. As the woman had said earlier, it looked like the entire South Side Cartel had come. Until his absence became clear, his shooter had led the way boldly. When the gunman saw the bare place he'd left his victim's body, he stopped cold.

The man to the shooter's right turned on him. The Dark Knight recognized the man from the scar along his right cheek. He was the second highest ranking member of the South Side Cartel. The cheek beneath the scar turned purple as the man continued to scream at the shooter, who'd nearly put a bullet through the heart of Batman. Batman could not quite make out his words as they came over the night air. Then the Scar-Cheeked leader or the South Side Cartel gestured for some of the men behind him to begin spreading out.

They were going to search for him, likely among the women. There were no police in the area. The possibility of them interfering if they had been was almost nonexistent. What was likely was that the locks on the doors of residents of the Red Light District were inferior.

Distance mattered more than accuracy at the moment. That was good, because it was over two-hundred feet. He aimed over their heads, and let a batarang fly. Before the designated searchers had more than taken a few steps out of the crowd, they all heard a familiar, whirring sound. They all glanced up in time to see the street lights flash off of the missile flying over their heads.

To a man, they ducked. They needn't have. The missile flew five feet above the heads of even the tallest among them. It hit a brick wall and stuck. The Scar-Cheeked man clenched his jaw as he looked at the bat-shaped piece of black metal. Light flashed off its surface and over its razor edges. The mob boss then turned toward where it'd come from.

A barely discernible outline was against the smog-filled sky. It was a familiar, hated shape. The moment he saw it, it turned and disappeared. There was no use searching for him then.

He punched the incompetent in the jaw and gut before demoting him. He was too good a man, usually, to get rid of permanently. This would make him more careful next time. No more staking out this place though. It was a waste of man and gun power. If they didn't get so much protection money from it, he'd have burned it to the ground!

. . .

That night a rumor spread The Bat was immortal. It was not believed by the majority of Gotham's citizens for long, but it didn't quite die out for nearly two decades.

**So what did you think? Please review and tell me. Feel free to explain both what you did and didn't like, but don't be mean about it. **


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own Batman, Gotham, or Jim Gordon. This story is for entertainment purposes only. **

**This chapter probably has the least action of any in this series. I'm not sure how often this incident will be mentioned in following chapters. You might be able to get away with not reading it if you hate character interaction without actual action. I have a storyline with far more fisticuffs and gunshots in the works. Don't give up on this story just because of this chapter if you hate this kind of stuff.**

Madge closed the door of her apartment and turned around. She blinked.

"Bat! What are you doing here?"

Her curtain fluttered along with his cape in the slight breeze coming in the open window facing her fire escape. Other than this movement, he was as still as her furniture. In her fully lit apartment he didn't seem quite the living shadow he did on the dark streets. Every strap and seam of his suit was clearly defined from the rest.

His gaze seemed fixed on her bare wood floor. He didn't look up from it at her question. She was just forming a sarcastic remark about this, when he fell to one knee.

She strode across the room to him. As she neared, she saw beads of sweat on what little face his mask left exposed. When she was standing directly in front of him, she covered her nose.

"You smell of smoke and gas, what happened?!"

"Car exploded."

Her eyes widened and she stared at him for another second. Still not looking up at her, he mumbled under his breath, "It's a long story."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Toxin. I'll sweat it out . . . Just need . . . somewhere . . . to sweat it out . . . Couldn't . . . make it . . . anywhere else. I'm sorry."

"What (censored) managed to poison you?"

"Someone . . . who got . . . creative . . ."

"What do you need?"

"Water . . . , as cold as . . . you can get it."

"Okay. Do you want to sit or lie down?"

"I'll lay on the floor . . . , behind the bed . . . , hidden."

"Oh (censored) you will."

With that she grabbed his right arm, dragged him to his feet, and then shoved him onto her bed. His feet hung over it until he lifted himself into a sitting position. As he did she grabbed her coffee pot and headed for the bathroom to fill it with cold water. While the water ran, he spoke to her back.

"If anyone comes in . . ."

"No one's comin in! You stay put!"

"You realize . . . I'll be here all night?"

"Yeah, I figured."

She poured him a few glasses of water, as cold as she could get it working with the building's plumbing and without ice. As he drank his third glass, she noticed his hand was shaking.

"I think you need a doctor Bat."

"They wouldn't . . . be able . . . to do anything. No antidote. Just need . . . to sweat out . . . the overdose."

"Wait . . . _Overdose?"_

"More than . . . is necessary . . . to kill me. If there's enough . . . in the system . . . the body . . . recognizes it . . . flushes it out."

"You're serious?"

"Yes."

"And you still don't want a doctor?"

"No."

"I have a gun. I was gonna give it to you the next time I saw ya. I can hold the doc at gunpoint while he looks you over, like in the westerns."

"No."

She scowled down at the little bit of his seeable face beneath his mask. It was pouring sweat. She couldn't imagine what the rest was doing under that mask. She reached towards the cowl. He reached up just as slowly, and grabbed her wrist. She waited for him to squeeze until tears stung her eyes. Instead he lowered it down to the bedspread and let go. When he spoke, his voice hadn't raised or lowered an octave.

"It's better . . . you . . . not know."

"You need to sweat it out don't you?"

"You can't . . . see . . . my face."

She jerked both her hands out of his reach. Then she launched herself from his bedside. He was almost grateful. It created a slight breeze on his jaw for a moment.

He heard her stomping as he watched her march off toward her bathroom. Then he heard the turn of a squeaky nob, and water running into the tub. She returned with a towel. The water running off it left a steady trail of drops behind her. She came up to him and spoke. The anger in her words was held tightly in check, like a dog straining at the end of a leash.

"Look. This is one (censored) big towel. Now, I'll hold it over your head, you take off that (censored) mask, and I'll put it over that (censored), top secret face of yours. Okay?"

The Bat studied her without answering for a full minute.

"Turn . . . around."

She did.

"Look . . . straight ahead . . . and don't move . . . until . . . I tell you."

She could hear the sound of velcro being ripped apart, but it was slow and a little at a time. This was eventually replaced by the sound of something being pulled off. She was surprised at the stench that followed.

The smell was of sweat-soaked cloth that had been closed off from the air. It reminded her of a men's locker room hamper, filled with an entire high-school football team's sweaty towels. As she covered her mouth and nose with one hand, she felt the towel being taken from the other. She heard it slapping down on skin, then rustling sheets and water being wrung out of cloth. The movements ceased, and instead a long, drawn out breath echoed through the room.

"You can . . . turn back . . . around."

She did. He had removed his mask. The towel was wrapped around his face, with its ends tied into a knot in the back. Nearly the exact same area of his face was covered by it as had been hidden by the mask before. The mask itself lay on the pillow, as if a dark, deflated, and soulless head lay there. While she studied these things, she was startled by his voice.

"Can you . . . bring me . . . another?"

By the time she stopped running back and forth, he had a towel soaked in cold water wrapped around both of his wrists, and one thrown across his chest and over his shoulder, so the water would drip beneath his chest piece. He even had a piece of cloth wrapped around the glass of water sitting on the nightstand beside him. She'd thought she'd ask him about that last one when he felt better, but after thinking about it for awhile, she realized it was probably to prevent fingerprints.

He turned the towels by increments so the wettest sides were turned inward and the sides that had dried next to his oven like face were turned outward. When the cloth seemed too dry to do anymore good, she refilled the pitcher and walked back over to the side of the bed.

His blindfolded gaze followed her path. When she came back to stand beside the head of the bed, she explained.

"I'll pour this water on the towel. You won't have to take it off."

He nodded. She poured. As she straightened he muttered, "Thank you."

She blinked, thinking of a reply.

"Well, I want you to live, so you can punch out a few more (censored) who have it comin."

"You didn't . . . have to do . . . any of this."

With a catch in her voice she spoke a little softer.

"You don't have to do anything for us either."

It was then she realized his slight shaking in the hands had become violent trembling throughout his body.

"Bat?"

"Just the . . . toxin . . ."

"Should I get you another blanket?"

"You . . . don't . . . have . . . another . . . blanket . . ."

"I can get one."

She went out, slamming the door. After striding four doors down, she banged on number thirty-eight. A scratchy, sharp voice from inside shouted a response.

"What!"

"Open up Clarice!"

Clarice did. She stared at Madge with bleared eyes. A lit cigarette was in her right hand. The scent of something stronger wafted from the room behind her.

"What do you want?"

"I need a blanket."

"What?"

"I need a blanket! Here!"

Madge shoved a carton of cigarettes at her.

"I decided to quit. You can have them. Just gimme a blanket."

Clarice looked like a sly, buzzed fox. She swayed forward and backward, to a beat only she heard.

"Well . . . I donoooo . . ."

Madge snatched the box of cigarettes back from her, and held them behind her back with her right hand, while putting her left arm up, elbow pointed out toward the other woman. Clarice's eyes first grew wide, and then hard. Madge looked unflinchingly into them anyway.

"Blanket. Now."

Clarice disappeared into her room and came back with a disgusting, crumpled, but fairly warm looking bundle of thick cloth in her arms. When she got within a few steps of her, she tossed it at Madge's head. Madge caught it before it could fall over her like a net, and tossed the last of her cigarettes at Clarice. Then she turned, and strode back to her room.

She got there, opened it with her key, and slipped in before slamming it shut behind her. She walked to the bed with a slight bounce in her steps. Then Madge threw the blanket over her sweating, trembling, straight-faced guest.

"Here! Told you I could get another one."

"What . . . did you . . . give up . . . for it?"

"A nasty habit."

His trembling got worse instead of better. The gleam of triumph disappeared from her eye. "Bat?"

"It'll . . . help me . . . sweat it out . . . , but the . . . shaking . . . won't . . . stop until I . . . have."

_"__Is there any chance you won't?"_ She whispered.

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Bat?"

His reply sounded harder than norm, as well as shaky.

"At some point . . . , I'll likely . . . get delirious . . . When that happens . . . , don't mind anything . . . I say . . . , but keep the towel . . . on my face . . . and don't . . . look at it . . . . After that. . . I'll either . . . get better . . . or I won't.

Her face paled.

"What am I gonna do then Bat?"

He was quiet for a moment more, and then replied through chattering teeth.

"Come . . . closer."

She did. She felt sicker than men sick in another way had made her feel in a long time. She sat down at the foot of the bed. She waited for the least sick man, in that way, she'd ever met to speak. He did. She winced at the opening of what was a long speech for him.

"If I . . . stop . . . breathing . . . , get cold . . . , and you can't find . . . a pulse . . . or make me . . . bleed . . . , take off the . . . suit. I already . . . removed . . . the belt."

She knew that, it was hanging right within his reach from the head of the bed.

"Hide it . . . , all of it . . . Then call . . . Gordon."

"Gordon who?"

"Officer . . . Gordon."

The policeman?"

"He's an . . . honest cop."

"The only honest cop," she muttered.

"Tell him . . . I hired you . . . for the night . . . , but got sick. Tell him. . . I told you . . . to stay . . . until I . . . felt better . . . You did . . . , I didn't . . . You finally . . . realized . . . I was dead. In . . . my right . . . boot . . . is three thousand . . . take it . . . for your . . . trouble . . ."

"Should I try to leave the towel-mask?"

"After . . . you take off . . . everything else . . . , you can. . . look . . . , before you call . . . It's even . . . more important . . . in death . . . , than life . . . that nobody know . . . who I was . . . After they . . . take me away . . . , someone . . . might come . . . who knew me . . . without the mask . . . Give everything. . . to them. They'll know . . . what to do . . . with it. Tell them you did . . . absolutely . . . everything . . . you could . . . I wouldn't . . . let you . . . get help. They'll believe you."

"You make a habit of this, huh?"

"You could . . . say that."

"Okay. Is there anything else I can do . . ?"

The Batman shook his head.

"Anything your mom or dad or whoever looked after you used to do? Favorite song or somethin? You're lookin pretty miserable Bat, help me out here."

"They read . . . to me."

"Oh . . . sorry. I don't have any books Bat."

"I know . . . You draw."

"It's kinda creepy you know that Bat." Madge looked at the towel. "Besides, I don't think that's gonna help you much."

"Can you . . . get your sketches?"

"I _can_ . . . "

"Go . . . ahead."

She got up and, came back with her sketch book in her hands, confused.

"Flip to . . . the first page."

She did.

"Describe it . . . to me."

She did so. He listened without comment, nodding at times. Her words distracted him from the symptoms somewhat, especially since he was dividing his attention between it, and listening for any sound at the closed door or open window. Madge paused when she finished describing her first sketch.

"Want me to go on to the next?" He nodded. She did.

The trembling got worse. She stopped at times to pull the blankets up, get water, and pour it in a glass or moisten the towels with it. Every time she asked if he wanted her to keep talking about the drawings he nodded, until he stopped responding to her altogether. She went on checking the towels and moistening them when they dried.

At one point, she ran to get more water. When she returned, he'd turned over. The towel that had covered his face was on the floor next to the bed. She froze.

All there was to see was jet-back hair. His face was turned into the pillow. That was still more than she'd known before though.

She rushed over and picked the towel up. Her back was turned towards him. She heard movement, and then his voice, though it sounded unlike him. The speaker sounded confused, frightened, and child-like. The lips speaking were trembling more than ever.

"Mom . . .?"

She froze mid stoop. She didn't dare turn around. She held her breath. He called to her again.

"Mom . . ?"

In a breaking voice she answered without turning around.

"Go to sleep."

"Is dad . . . home yet?"

"No . . . he'll get here soon. Go back to sleep."

"I had . . . a nightmare."

"I'm sorry, but you still have to go back to sleep."

"Something . . . happened . . . to both . . . of you."

"It was only a dream. Just go back to sleep."

"Dad told me . . . not to be . . . scared . . . and be . . . a hero . . . like you . . . I tried . . ."

"Baby . . . you . . . you should really . . ."

"Why won't . . . you . . . look at me?"

"Turn around and I will."

"Why . . . ?"

"Just do it."

She heard rustling on the pillow. She stood up without turning. Her eyes bored into the opposite wall. She reached out toward him like a blind person and felt the wet cloth of the pillow, and then wet hair. She closed her eyes, spun around and slapped the towel down before looking. She relaxed when she saw the towel was covering his entire head. He turned toward her, entangling his head into the towel even more. She quickly turned its corner up to reveal his chin, mouth, and bottom of his nose. He took in a deep breath that turned into a sigh.

"Do you feel any better?"

"Not as . . . hot . . . but I can't . . . see you . . ."

"I know, but you can hear me."

"Will you . . . read to me?"

"No . . . you better go to sleep. It will make you feel better."

He sighed again. "Okay . . . Mom . . . ?

"Yes . . . ?"

"I'm glad . . . you and . . . dad . . . are okay."

Her voice broke again as she replied. "So am I."

He fell asleep, still trembling. Eventually he began to shake less. An hour and forty-three minutes later, Madge kept track, he stirred. Half asleep herself, Madge came fully awake and leaned over him.

"You getting better bats?" She slumped in relief when the voice answered her in the tone she was familiar with.

"Yes . . . You can . . . rest now. I'll look after . . . myself . . . until I leave . . ."

She gave him a bitter, sarcastic smile he couldn't see.

"You look worse than me."

He acted like he didn't hear.

"Get some rest . . . , you deserve it."

You sure you'll be okay?"

"Yes."

"Guess I'll go sleep in the tub, then. Good morning!" While her back was turned, he gave a half smile she didn't see either.

. . .

In full gear, Batman stepped softly into the bathroom that was barely big enough for him to do so. Madge was asleep, curled up in her tub. He threw the blanket from Clarice over her, then lifted her head to slide a pillow under it. She didn't wake, but snuggled into the new comforts. He straightened, then reached into one of his belt's many pouches and removed four, crumpled $500 dollar bills. He laid these folded in half together on her. He placed the empty and dried glass that had sat by his bedside on top of the bills. He glanced back at Mage, then turned and left.

. . .

Madge scowled at the cylinder of tobacco and paper as she held the lighter up to its end.

"I thought you quit."

Madge spun toward the voice. As she did, the fire escape creaked beneath her feet. A dark shadow shot up from the fire escape across from hers. He pinned hers with a black gaze until the creak faded into silence. The rigging had stilled instead of giving way.

With a slight relaxing of his shoulders, The Dark Knight looked up and met Madge's eyes. She was scowling even more sharply at him than she had at the cigarette. "Do you have anything else to say?" She asked.

One of his eyebrows lifted as he replied. "Only my thanks. Does that upset you?"

"Not as much as the other 'thank you,' you left me the night before last."

"The money?"

Looking away, Madge stuck the cigarette into her mouth and sucked in without replying.

"You didn't work that night," The Batman went on.

"It was my night off!" Madge snapped. Smoke spilled out of her mouth along with her words.

"You don't get a night off."

Madge looked away. The Batman waited. When she didn't say anything, he went on. "You didn't ask for anything when I came to you. And what you did was more than I asked for. That says more about you than what you do to survive. What I left didn't come close to repaying what I owe you. I thought of it as lost wages, so your good deed wouldn't be punished."

Madge's shoulders slumped. She finally whispered a reply. _"Okay Bat."_

The Batman nodded, turned, and had shot his grappling gun at the roof of the building across from hers. Before it pulled him up, Madge spoke again while stepping on her lit cigarette.

"Bat . . ."

He turned back to face her.

"You don't owe me a thing," Madge murmured into the night air. She turned and went into her apartment. He watched her go, before disappearing into the night.

**Reviews are appreciated and often responded to. Feel free to critique. Tell me what is wrong with it so I can make it better next time. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer- I do not own Batman or Gotham City. However, this particular neighborhood in Gotham City and the other characters in this chapter are my creations.**

**Apologies to my wonderful reviewer gordios79, to whom I wrote I would be attempting to post this chapter on Sunday. I did, but after 10 p.m. where I was. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint gordios79.**

Madge's eyes flicked to the side as she spied Jeannette slipping a fifty into her boot. As she spoke, Madge looked back to her feet as she slipped on her own shoes. "You know that's asking for trouble."

"Oh come one Madge." Jeannette grumbled. "He won't make me take off my boots. He likes me tall."

Deidra snorted. "He doesn't like anyone. No one likes him. And you won't catch me making him like me less by sneaking cash by him. I spend mine before I get back."

Both Jeannette and Madge rolled their eyes.

"So, what are you saving up for?" Francesca asked while brushing out her waist length, black hair. As the other girls were removing make up, wigs, tights, etcetera, she was freshening herself back up.

Jeannette shrugged. "A way out, enough to get out of this burg long enough to find other work."

Francesca smiled. "Getting out of this place. Want to drink to that?"

"With what?" Not only Jeannette, but Madge and Deidra turned toward the other woman. Francesca knelt before "her" dressing table, and pulled out a wine bottle. The jaws of all three girls dropped.

Francesca smirked at their expressions. "Gift from my best customer. Of course we have to borrow a few cups from the bar."

"No thanks," Deidra muttered. She turned and headed for the door. "I can get better than cheap wine." She slammed the door behind her and all three other women rolled their eyes again. Francesca chuckled.

"She left before I could tell her this was the good stuff."

The three women left the club. Francesca smiled when she saw a long, black car parked across the street.

"Tell Samson I'll be back tomorrow morning, but with more cash from staying out late."

She jogged over as fast as she could in heels. A back door opened for her and she hopped in. The car's engine roared to life and it pulled away from the curb. The other two women watched with their mouths set in grim lines.

"How long do you think it will last?"

"I give it anywhere from a week to a month."

"You'd think she'd know better by now."

"We all have our illusions."

Madge glanced at Jeannette's boot, and Jeannette pretended not to notice.

. . .

The women entered the apartment building a wad of bills in their fists to pay that night's rent. No tall, broad landlord appeared to collect.

"That's weird."

"Maybe he went out."

"He usually stays in."

"No skin off my nose," Jeannette replied before jogging up the stairs. Madge watched from below before slowly following. When she got up she saw Jeannette staring at the first door near the stairs. She came up behind her and whispered.

_"__He in there?"_

_"__Doesn't sound like it."_

They walked on and Madge reached her room. Before going in she turned to watch Jeannette putting her key into her own lock. "G'night Jeannette."

A corner of Jeannette's mouth turned up. "More like good morning."

Madge snorted before stepping into her room and closing the door behind her. Jeannette swung open her own door and froze. A man was sitting in the only chair in the room. His bulk made it look like a child's toy. As soon as his gaze met Jeannette's he rose from it. He held up a folded over stack of bills that smelled of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and the inside of a boot.

Jeannette was backing away from his approach step by step, even as he spoke. "Holding on to what was mine were ya?" Jeannette's back hit the wall of the hallway. The man stepped through her doorway as he continued to growl.

"You no good (censored)."

Jeannette turned and flew down the stairway. The heel of her shoe caught on a step and she fell. Before she'd caught her breath or raised herself to her hands or feet, she was yanked up by her hair. She was dragged off of and then back up the steps to her hallway. There she was thrown back onto the stained carpet. She turned and backed into the wall again. As the fist flew towards her face she had final thought before the pain drove out the ability to think.

_"__I was just as dumb as Francesca."_

. . .

Batman was standing in his usual spot when a flash of light caught his eye. It was a tiny, red flame flashing from right to left, creating a trail of light. He swung over to the fire escape of an empty apartment.

Madge turned off her lighter and bent over the rail of her own fire escape to meet his gaze.

"Samson's beating Jeannette. I don't think he's going to stop until she'd dead."

Batman swung the side of his fist at the window beside him. Glass shattered. Grasping the inner frame of the window Batman yanked it upwards. Halfway up he used his other hand to shove it the rest of the way and slid inside. He strode to the door across from the window. Lifting his right leg he solidly kicked the part of the door even with the doorknob. It flew open with a crack. He strode into the hall, and turned to his right.

Jeanette tasted salt as she bit down a little harder on her bottom lip. He was squeezing both her wrists in his left hand. She pressed her back into the wall behind her as much as she could as he cocked his right arm again. Suddenly another hand grabbed Samson's wrist.

In one motion Samson turned, letting go of her wrists and making a fist with his right hand he swung at whoever had dared interfere. His fist was caught in midair. The hand that caught it squeezed and twisted at the same time.

Samson gave a yell that was cut off as a blow was delivered to his solar plexus. The Batman leaned down and whispered into the man's ear as he tried to catch his breath. "Be careful how you use the other one." He dropped the man's hand.

Samson shot to his feet and flung himself at the intruder. Batman stepped aside. Samson flew past and crashed into the floor. He didn't get up. Batman checked his pulse and diagnosed it as a mild concussion. The damage to the victim and to the perpetrator's hand, however, was not mild.

A blond woman had exited the first room by the stairs. She stared at the still form of the man. Tears shimmered in her blue eyes. Batman turned toward her. She took a step back from him.

"Call for two ambulances."

"Is he dead?"

"No, but they both need an ambulance, and not the same one."

"Just go call for the (censored) ambulances Alice!" Madge had opened the door of her apartment to survey the scene.

The blond woman turned and flew down the stairs with a soft cry.

Madge rolled her eyes and stepped up to Jeannette's side. Batman had already knelt down beside the woman. _"I need to determine if you can wait for the ambulance. I'll have to examine you."_

_"__Go ahead," _Jeannette wheezed. _"It can't be the worst part of my night." _

**Review are highly valued, read, and often responded to. **


	5. Chapter 5

**I neither created nor own Batman, Gotham, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, or Lucius Fox. However, I have created the other characters in this story. I also created this Red Light District of Gotham City. **

**I want to thank Anonymous Rex for the wonderful reviews. ****J**

A phone hung on the wall of the hospital hallway leading from the emergency room to the waiting room. It was for worried family and friends of the patient who needed to contact and worry other family members and friends of the patient. No one paid any attention to it unless they had to use it. So, when it rang everyone just stared at it, except for Dr. Leslie Thomkins who answered it.

Everyone found this less strange than the fact the phone was ringing. No one thought it odd Dr. Thomkins took charge of an oddly ringing phone. She was that type of woman. Whether or not she was technically in charge she acted like she was. She faced the strange and distasteful without flinching, and got unpleasant tasks out of the way as soon as they came. Even those there who didn't know her could see these things in her straight face as she picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Keep the incoming patients as far apart as possible."

The line went dead. Dr. Thomkins hung up. She turned around to find Dr. Brown staring at her with furrowed brows. "What was that?"

"Exactly what I thought it was," Leslie replied.

The man opened his mouth, but the sound of sirens made him close it again. He and Leslie strode in that direction. The other doctors followed, entirely forgetting about the mysteriously ringing phone.

Between the woman's condition, the scrapes on the man's knuckles, and answers given by the paramedic's who'd brought them no one questioned Dr. Thomkins orders to put the patients on opposite ends of the wings and in assigning extra security on both rooms.

. . .

Leslie trudged up the steps to her home. She unlocked her front door, swung it open, and stared at the six-ft-two man built like a football linebacker who was standing in her front hall. She finished stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind her.

"I could've seen those patients needed to be kept apart without the phone call."

"How are they?"

Leslie removed her coat and hung it up on the rack as she replied.

"They'll both live. The damage to her mouth will keep her from eating solids. The damage to her ribs will keep her from laughing or breathing deeply. The damage to her left eye will keep her from seeing out of it for days. The damage to his hand and wrist should keep him from using either for weeks, and I don't blame you."

Leslie turned back in time to see to her god-son's head droop forward, as his eyelids slide shut above their dark bags. One hand went back to her left hip. The other pointed toward the staircase.

"Upstairs, bed, now. I'll call Alfred."

"I can make it back the mansion."

"You'll risk driving in your condition?"

"I'll set the car to automatically travel through the tunnel syste. . ."

"I don't care. It will give us a chance to talk this afternoon, now go."

"We can talk now."

"When you've slept. I won't talk to someone who's slurring his words in exhaustion."

A corner of Bruce's mouth quirked up, then fell again before he turned and began to climb the stairs. Leslie marched behind him. Inwardly she sighed in relief. Bruce was no longer the boy she could pick up and carry up these stairs when he decided to be stubborn.

They stopped at the first door in the hall. Leslie opened the door, placed her free hand into the small of Bruce's back, and pushed him inside the guest bedroom. Once inside he slowly turned back to face her. Then his hand shot out and grabbed the inside door knob.

Leslie gave her knob a jerk. He held the door in place. She crossed her arms and stared up at him. His eyes pierced unrepentantly back into hers.

"How much were their hospital bills?"

"Not now."

"The fight started over her keeping $293 for herself. His hospital bill will be paid by the other women working longer hours."

"Neither will have to pay for months. We can afford to take nine hours of sleep before talking about it."

"How's 'Escape Route' coming?"

"Do I need to examine your ears, Bruce?"

"I won't be able to sleep until I know."

She sighed. "Lucius said we're making progress."

"How soon?"

"Bruce, we cannot begin to discuss the half-dozen road blocks that need to be overcome before you get at least six hours, and nine if you want to be at your most brilliant when we do."

"Your patient is going to need someplace safe to go when she gets out. So do all the others before the same happens to them."

"I know, Bruce. But neither of us can help them if we don't sleep. And I won't until you do."

Five seconds passed in silence. Bruce let go of the doorknob. He backed up, sat down on a corner of the bed, removed his loafers, and collapsed onto the mattress. Leslie closed the door behind her.

. . .

After a brief pause to glance around the landing Francesca shrugged, then bounced up the steps with a pleased smile on her face. As she strutted down the hallway while digging her key out of her pocket, a door flew open. Her smug grin was gone in an instant.

Deidra shot out of her room and latched onto Francesca's arm. Deidra stared up at her with wild eyes and gave a cackling laugh. "Did you hear, Fran? We don't have to pay rent for a while."

Francesca merely blinked a non-response. The other woman went on, ending her words with shrieking laugh. "The Batman put Samson in the hospital!"

The woman went into a gale of laughter. Then she retreated back into her own room, still caught up in her laughter and who knew what else. Francesca turned as another voice spoke behind her.

"It's true."

Francesca turned. Madge stood in her own doorway, leaning against it, looking as if she might have been trying to sleep and not succeeding. Francesca blinked at her.

"What he do to put the Bat over the edge?"

"He was beating on Jeannette. She's in the hospital too."

Francesca frowned. After a few moments, she gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. "He was beating Jeannette out there?"

"No, in here. Batman's the one who broke that." Madge gestured to the door after hers. Francesca could see the spider like cracks running through the wood.

"How'd the Bat know what was going on in here?"

Madge glanced down at the floor and mumbled under her breath, "Who knows." Then she retreated back into her room closing the door behind her.

Francesca stared at Madge's closed door, glancing from it to the cracked door beside it. She finally opened her own as she stuffed the money she'd been holding into the pocket of the quality men's jacket she wore.

**Reviews are greatly appreciated and often responded to.**


	6. Chapter 6

**I did not create nor own Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Lucius Fox, or Gotham City. I did create the other characters in this story. This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

(Two years before Batman began roaming Gotham)

The seventeen-year-old, blonde female shivered on the bench. She could barely be seen in the smoggy darkness by the light of the distant street light. She huddled with her arms wrapped around herself and kept her eyes on her knees.

He smiled and pointed to her. The other man flashed a grin and nodded. He strode across the street, staying beyond the beams of the streetlamp.

The blond didn't hear the tall man until he spoke a few feet beside her. "Heya toots! Got something for me?"

She shot to her feet, and began to back away. "No . . . no . . ."

The man drew something out of his pocket and flipped the butterfly knife open while approaching her. "Oh, I bet you do."

Blue eyes stared at the knife while her feet continued to back away step by step. She felt a huge mass step up behind her and turned with a squeak. A much taller, broader man growled while pointing over the other man's shoulder. "Get out of here."

The other man turned and raced off into the darkness. The girl turned to the second man, tilting her heart-shaped face upwards. Two dimples appeared in the corners of her grinning mouth. "Thank you!"

"What's a sweet thing like you doing our here in the dark?"

The girl's face fell and she bowed her head. A thick set of fingers tilted her chin back up to look into the man's face. "Need a place to stay tonight?"

Her smile returned beneath wet eyes as she gave a slight nod. He wrapped her arm around her slight shoulders and led her to a neighborhood she had heard to stay away from, but she felt safer than she had all night. He took her inside the apartment building and up the stairs. There he opened a door and gestured her inside. "Just let me know if you need anything."

"Do . . . do you know of any place looking for a waitress or maid or something, maybe you need a maid here. I don't want to be burden."

"Oh I know where a pretty girl like you can make more in one night than a waitress or maid makes in a month."

"I . . . I don't do things like that."

The man's meaty shoulder rose. "Suit yourself. If you want things you can't get as a maid or waitress, all you have to do is flash that pretty smile at me and a few people I know."

Over the next days he touched her in ways that made her feel uncomfortable and drove her places she didn't want to be, but he had saved her from something she was certain would have been worse, so she said nothing. She said nothing when he never took her to the places she asked him to. She said nothing when he sweetly insisted he couldn't let her go back out into that cold world until he saw her well on her way. Finally, the things he did made her feel as if she was no longer too good for that work. When he took her money to put toward her expenses she still said nothing. She especially said nothing when his eyes suddenly flashed hard, and his grip suddenly got painful. She had no one but him anymore, him and the other women who saw through him. So, the night Batman sent her Samson to the hospital, Alice rocked herself on her bed, and cried.

. . .

Samson scowled up at the ceiling of the ambulance. This was the second time a traitorous (censored) and an uppity fighter had put him in one of these. This was why he didn't trust them. They always did this to you. But he'd learned.

He'd been a fool when he'd thought he'd seen the pride in her eyes as she met him with the press of her lips and body against his sweaty skin after every match, whether he won or lost. He thought she ment everything she said all those nights. He believed her when she said they were on top of the world, on their way, going all the way. He hadn't hid his injury from her. He'd seen no reason why. Just when he could have had it all, his opponent took advantage of that injury. He'd looked for her after that match, and hadn't found her. She'd come to the hospital a few times. Then she stopped. It wasn't until he got out he'd learned she'd cleaned him out, his savings, his trophies, his drugs and bottles, and then he'd seen her on the tube, with him, the reigning champ of the ring, standing there with his enemy when she should have been standing there with him.

He'd learned. He couldn't get to her, but he'd make every (censored) like her he could get his hands on pay, pay for everything they took from him. And that Bat would pay too, oh yeah, he'd pay big time.

. . .

The meeting to discuss "Escape Route" and other projects like it lasted three hours and an entire pot of chamomile tea. Afterwards, all involved felt only slightly more hopeful about Gotham's future than they had before the meeting. As soon as Lucius left, Leslie laid her hand over the closed fist Bruce had on the table. He turned his gaze to meet hers.

"Bruce, what will you do if five years from now nothing in this city has changed?"

Bruce looked down to study the map laid out on the table.

"Everything changes one way or another."

Leslie rolled her eyes and tried again. "What will you do if everything's gotten worse?"

"Attempt to create or implement tactics better than these."

Leslie laid her head down on the table. Bruce raised his gaze from the map to watch. After a moment a mumble came from the face pressed into the wood. "What have I done to you, Bruce?"

The younger man reached out and laid a hand on one of hers. She looked up to meet the gaze of stormy-grey eyes that were locked on hers. His tone was deep and firm. "If you hadn't made me see beyond my own pain, you would have already lost me to it."

Leslie sighed, sat up straight again, sipped her tea, and said, "I think Jeannette Phillips is going to need outpatient therapy when we release her."

Bruce smiled at his godmother.

"For how long?"

"Oh . . . it could be a while these things can't be rushed, in spite of _some_ stubborn patients insistence on trying to do so." Leslie stared very hard at Bruce over the teacup she'd raised to her lips while saying this.

Bruce quirked an eyebrow at the Doctor. Then he held his own teacup out towards her. "To outpatient therapy."

Leslie touched her cup to his. "To patients being willing to accept a doctor's advice."

. . .

Two days after the man of the house was taken away in an ambulance Madge left the apartment building hours before she was due at the club. As she shut the door behind her, a soft voice behind her made her spin around. "Are you going to see Jeannette?"

Madge met a pair of powder-blue eyes and a tiny smile that couldn't make the two little dimples she knew were there pop out. She didn't try to hide the gravel in her own voice as she turned and began to stride down the hall.

"Yep."

"Can I come with you?" The other woman asked, following behind. "I want to see Samson."  
"I'm . . . going to make a stop on the way," Madge replied.

"I don't mind."

Madge let out a long breath before muttering, "Fine."

There were a lot of other speeches she told herself she should have said, in which every other word was an expletive, but she didn't. Something in her knew it would do no good, something inside her had given up.

. . .

"Hi Jeannette."

"Madge," the woman mumbled around the tubes out of one side of her mouth. She continued as the other woman stepped into the hospital room. "How's Samson's hand?"

Madge shrugged as she sat down beside the hospital bed. "I don't know. I can ask Alice when we leave together if you want."

Madge saw Jeannette's still open right eye roll. Madge bent down and opened the plastic sack she'd carried in with her. "I got a few things to help you pass the time since I've got a little cash to blow, for now."

Madge held up the stack of fashion magazines over the rail of the bed and up toward Jeannette's swollen face.

"You're sweet . . ." the patient sputtered around the tube. Madge gave her a tired half-grin.

"Actually, Francesca told me what to get. You should know that since it's the two of you who dress me. She said she might be by later."

"Why didn't she come now?"

I think she's still sleeping off her late night with her new guy."

"Ah!" Jeanette replied with another eye roll.

. . .

"Hi Sam."

He glanced up at the door. He was bored, and she looked pretty. Besides he needed her for a few things. So he met her tiny smile with a wider one of his own.

He watched her take tiny careful steps toward him while watching the floor for cords. She was just like her, maybe less tall, less muscled, but that pretty little mouth sputtered just as much sweet poison. Oh well, he was immune to it now.

"Come over here and show me you're happy to see me."

She bowed down with puckered lips. He met them with his own. She pulled back, and gave another forced quarter-smile. "I thought about bringing flowers, but I know how you hate me wasting money."

"That was a good girl, was Francesca a good girl last night. Did she come back?"

"She . . . she came back."

"Did she bring money?"

"Oh she must have."

"What are the (censored) doing with their dough?"

"I think they're keeping it for you, for when you come home."

"They better be. I want you to make sure they do, and I want you to do something else for me."

"What?"

"One of those other (censored) called in the Bat to do this to me. I can't let them get away with that."

A chill went the young woman's body. "Are . . . are you . . . sure."

His left hand shot out, grabbed her wrist, and squeezed. She winced as he growled.

"I'm always sure."

"She smiled as her eyes stung and managed to speak without whimpering."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Find out which (censored) let him in. You'll do that baby . . . right?" He released her wrist.

Alice nodded while rubbing the sore joint with her other hand. "Uh-huh."

Samson puckered his lips and she knelt to meet them with hers.

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to.**


	7. Chapter 7

**I neither created nor own Batman, Gotham, or Dr. Leslie Thomkins. However, I have created the other characters in this story. I also created this Red Light District of Gotham City. **

Alice tiptoed into the room. Francesca was chuckling as she pointed to a page in one of the magazines Madge had brought earlier. Jeannette seemed to be trying not to laugh probably a good idea with deep bruising in her midsection and three cracked ribs. Alice tapped her knuckles against the door. Both women looked up at her.

"Hi, Jeannette, how are you doing?"

"Good as can be expected I guess." Alice barely understood the other woman speaking around her tubes. It made the younger woman feel awkward. Instead of asking herself why, Alice turned to the other visitor.

"His Francesca, what are you both looking at?"

"This" The darker woman held up the magazine. "Is that not the most disgusting outfit ever?"

Alice glanced over the glossy page graced by a model dressed in what might be called clothes. "Yes . . ."

Francesca and Jeannette both rolled their eyes as the former brought the magazine back down into Jeannette's eye range and flipped to the next page. Alice wrung her hands for a few heartbeats. How could she bring it up?

"What do you think about Batman's outfit?"

Both women's heads snapped up. Alice blushed and looked down at her toes. "Well I guess you haven't seen it recently have you Francesca? And . . . and I don't suppose you noticed . . . last time . . . you . . . saw . . . it . . . Jeannette. I should probably just ask . . . Madge . . ." For a moment, Alice stared at nothing.

"Why the sudden interest in the bat's fashions?" Francesca asked.

Alice started and looked down at the white, tiled floor. The silence was broken by Jeannette.

"Samson."

The blonde woman blushed. Francesca glanced back and forth from her red face to the Jeanette's white. The patient somehow made herself understood around the tubes.

"Get out Alice, now."

The younger woman stumbled backwards before turning and rushing into and down the hall.

. . .

Alice pawed through Madge's bottom drawer. She'd already torn through and re-tidied the bed, the closet, the bathroom, and the other drawers. Her hand was shaking when it touched a wide, long, thick, bound stack of paper. She drew the object out and stared at a sketchbook.

She shook it. A few bills fluttered out to land on the floor. Alice gathered these up and stuffed them into Samson's wallet. Then she began to flip through the book.

The young woman started at the demonic renderings of people she knew. Her eyes grew wide at the cartoons of Samson. Something twisted in her gut when she saw a drawing of herself. A thought bubble was over her head. Inside it was an image of a knight on a horse. The drawing of Samson stared back. Inside his own thought bubble was an image of a girl in chains with a dragon breathing fire at her.

Alice shut the notebook. She shot to her feet, strode out of the room, and slammed the door behind her. There were other rooms to check. Samson would probably want to look through this himself anyway.

. . .

Francesca opened her apartment door to see a white face framed by red hair.

"Madge?"

"Someone took my sketchbook."

"Alice must have it. Everyone's rooms are slightly tidier and our money's gone. She just left to pick Samson up from the hospital otherwise we would have all torn her to pieces by now."

Madge was already running down the hallway.

. . .

"Excuse me. I'm here to pick up Samson Roberts."

"All right hon, Samson Roberts' doctor said she wanted to talk to you before we release him. She's busy with other patients right now. You need to take a seat until she can chat."

"Okay, thank you."

Alice sat in an empty chair and picked up a magazine. A few minutes later the March issue of "Life in Metropolis" was torn from her hands and replaced with a red face framed by redder hair.

"Get off my sketch book."

Alice glanced down at the edge of the art book peeking out from under her skirt, but she didn't move. Madge glared at her.

"I you don't give it to me, I'll tell the Batman that Samson gave you that bruise after he was warned to be careful with how he used his good hand."

Alice's eyes went wide. She rose slightly from her chair. Madge nabbed her sketchbook and yanked it out from under the other woman.

"And if you tell Samson anything, he'll kill me. Can you imagine what Batman does to murderers?"

"He wouldn't do anything if everyone would be good and mind their own business!"

"No, I guess he wouldn't."

"Which one of you came to pick up Mr. Roberts?"

Both women's heads spun around. They met the chilly gaze of a much older woman wearing a white coat and holding a clipboard in her folded arms.

"Me," Alice replied.

"Did he give you that bruise on your wrist?"

"No." Alice tugged the sleeve of her shirt down over the dark discoloration in her skin.

"And I suppose you also aren't responsible for the chewing tobacco I caught him "enjoying" fifteen minutes after you visit."

"Yes! No! What chewing tobacco?"

"You're a bad liar. You're a worse influence on my patient, and he's an even worse influence on you. Giving him everything he asks for, because you're afraid of him, isn't love. I'd rather send him to the police station than home for both your sakes, but when I called they said you had to complain for them to do anything. Will you?"

"Of course not!"

"I was afraid of that. Since that's the case, you should know this. If he ever harms you, or any of the other girls he uses, in a way that finally gets the notice of the authorities, I will testify against him. I'll also advise the D.A., jury, and whoever else I have to, to keep him off the streets. Leaving him is the best thing you or the others can do for him at this point."

The doctor pulled a card out of her pocket and held it out to the younger woman. Alice took it with trembling fingers. She stared at it, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact with the other woman. Dr Thomkins words barely cut through the haze her earlier ones had created in the girl's mind.

"Call the first number if you or someone else requires immediate medical attention. Call the second to set up an appointment to talk about why you smuggle, lie for, and think you love a man who physically abuses you. Call the last number for someone to drive you somewhere safe."

"Are they all your numbers?"

"Yes."

Leslie Thomkins turned and walked away. It took five minutes for Alice to realize Madge and her sketch book were gone. She then asked after Samson at the desk again. Five minutes after that, he came out to the lobby and she walked out with him to the cab.

. . .

Francesca opened her door to staccato knocking for the second time that day. Once again it was Madge. This time she was sweating, red-faced, and holding her sketchbook.

"Do you have a sharp knife, a needle, and some thread I can borrow?"

180 seconds later Madge was slicing into her mattress. It would probably be safer to just burn the book, or at least a few select pages. She didn't bother asking herself why she was doing this instead. She crammed the book under the loose springs and sewed the hole up, sloppily. With the sheets pulled back over and tucked in no one would notice. Madge gave her borrowed implements back, got dressed for work and went, determined not to think about it again.

Just a few minutes after she left, a spare key unlocked the door, which then swung open. After a brief search the intruder discovered the sloppy sewing up of the mattress, ripped open the stitches, found the book, hastily flipped through it, stopped and studied one particular drawing, put the book back, and re-stitched the hole closed faster and neater than Madge had. Then the intruder vacated the room, locking the door behind.

. . .

"Hey Madge!"

Madge glanced up at Deidre.

"What?"

"My client wants me now, and I'm going to need a pick-me-up afterwards. I'll give you ten bucks to go to the hall closet and grab my stash from behind the bleach."

Madge rolled her eyes but headed towards the door. Ten bucks was ten bucks. Deidre gave the red-head's retreating figure a feral grin.

. . .

Madge shoved the last bottle of bleach to the far right. Apparently, management had just stocked up. She drew her searching hand back and scowled at the cobwebs she'd collected for her trouble. A bang made her spin around. The door had slammed shut.

With a string of curses Madge rushed to, grabbed, and tried to turn the knob. It stuck. She kept trying while kicking and even slamming herself against the wood. Management also seemed to have a thing about secure, closet doors. Under normal circumstances Madge couldn't blame them, but now she had a dozen profanities for them, along with Deidra, her "stash," and her ten bucks. Eventually Madge stopped, backed up, and sat on an overturned bucket. She glared at the piece of wood barring her from the rest of the world.

She knew how to pick locks with hair pins, but minutes ago she'd taken her hair down for a client that liked it that way. That old trick probably wouldn't have worked on the lock of this door anyway, or management would really be wasting their money and time. It at least would have been a way for her to waste her own overly abundant free time now though. Instead, she threw her shoe at the door and settled back to wait. Someone would come and open the door eventually, right?

Every time Madge heard someone walk by she shouted and banged on the door. The footsteps might pause, but they always continued on after a minute. Members of this community minded their own business, especially in this joint.

Eventually, silence spread throughout the building and crept into the closet. Her stomach felt emptier. The club had closed.

Others were going and getting something to eat, before paying their way into some building with a bed they might not have to share. She was in here. Deidre got a lot of curses thought her way.

Madge didn't even hear the footsteps or the lock picking. Maybe she had fallen asleep. If she had, the creak the hinges made as the door swung open jolted her awake. In the doorway stood a tall, imposing figure slightly darker than the surrounding shadows.

"Bat!"

The cry was more surprised joy than girlish squeal. At least, Madge told herself so. The woman didn't even try to explain to herself why ran right into him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and laid her head against his chest. He didn't reciprocate.

"How long were you in there?"

"Eh," She shrugged while pulling away, "I walked in less than an hour before closing time."

"Do you know who locked you in?"

"Deidre. That (censored). She was probably high enough to think she could rifle through my purse for cash if I were indisposed.

"Was she correct?"

"Nope," Madge grinned while sticking her hand down the front of her dress. She brought out a wad of bills. 'This is where I keep it when I can."

Batman turned his gaze from her to the door, closing and relocking it while he spoke. "I'll walk you back."

"It's almost daylight, Bat."

"I won't walk beside you, but I'll be nearby."

"You worry too much, Bat."

Madge went out the door with her purse. Everything inside it had been torn through. She'd reorganize it sometime after she woke up that afternoon, maybe.

Every now and then Madge studied the surrounding shadows to see if she could spy her escort. She couldn't, but he was there. She knew it.

The woman went into the apartment and laid a wad of bills next to the head of a passed out Samson. Apparently he had missed his stash of brandy during his hospital stay.

As she walked down the upstairs hall she went by an open door. A feminine voice called out of it. "Where've you been Madge?"

"You don't want to know."

If she could have seen the other woman's smile, Madge would have known her questioner already knew.

. . .

A young Lieutenant of the South Side Cartel sat at the poker table, attempting to be careful not to blow too much, but not quite succeeding. He could get more here and there. Just once he wanted to score big, just once.

"Mr. Russo!"

He looked up at the older, shorter, less important man holding a phone receiver.

"Call for you. It's supposed to be important."

Placing his cards face down Russo rose from his seat and went to the phone sitting on the countertop holding it to his ear he said his name and waited. A familiar voice greeted him.

"How would you like to kill the Bat?"

A wide, cold grin spread over his face.

**Reviews are greatly appreciated and often responded to.**

**Thanks again to Anonymous Rex for the detailed and encouraging reviews.**

**Special thanks to gordios79 for answering a question I had while writing this chapter. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**I neither own nor created Gotham, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Alfred Pennyworth, or Dr. Leslie Thomkins. I did create the other characters in this chapter and The Red Light District. **

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

As Madge trudged up the stone steps of the apartment building towards the door, it flew open. She stopped and looked up. Samson was standing in the doorway. He probably would have crossed his arms if it wouldn't have bumped his bandaged hand. Madge let out a long sigh.

"What do you want?"

"Before you come in tonight, you have to do a few favors for some friends of mine."

He used his chin to gesture at something behind her. Madge turned. A long, black sedan was parked across the street. She groaned. After going back down the stairs, she strode across the street while muttering under her breath when she thought she was out of Samson's hearing range. Her smile-mask was in place as she approached the vehicle.

A passenger door opened. She climbed over the person holding it open to sit between two men. The door shut. A mechanical ca-chunk told her the doors had locked, but she wasn't worried.

She didn't get nervous when they took her to a one room building near the docks. She became slightly apprehensive when they had her go down a trap door in the floor there. She didn't panic much further when the ropes came out and they tied her in a chair. She only felt fear when one of them bent over to look her in the face and said, "Now tell us about the Bat."

. . .

The arson seemed to have accomplished nothing except destroying a building and making nineteen people homeless. Yet, there were indications of it being the work of the South Side Cartel. If it was an act of retribution, why were its effects so widespread? If it was a warning, who had been warned?

There were things Batman hated, but understood, like greed. There were things he didn't understand, but believed essential to humanity's survival, like mercy. Dangerous things he didn't understand made him uneasy.

The fire had accomplished bringing him there, but no one had made an attempt on him. When the red, white, and blue lights had approached he'd disappeared into the shadows. When the policemen and ambulance workers started asking the victims questions, he left.

The sunrise troubled him further. The women of the Red Light District would be inside by now, all who made it back at least. The fire had coincided with the time they left work.

He went there anyway, darting from shadow to shadow glancing down into the streets and alleyways. He found one girl still lying where someone had left her. Ever since he'd escorted Madge to her apartment he'd kept a long, folded piece of material in his belt. He wrapped the woman in it and carried her to his car. There he contacted Alfred, who would contact Leslie.

Batman drove the victim to an area near the emergency room not covered by security cameras. Leslie was there with a hospital gown. He left the victim with her and went underground where bats belonged in the day. Then he went back to the mansion and fell asleep cursing the fact there was only one of him while wondering if that fact was in any way connected to the arson.

. . .

Batman stood at his usual spot in the Red Light district. Nothing had happened to prevent him being there that night. However, that didn't make him feel less disturbed by what had happened the night before.

A dot of red light flickered in a familiar place. He shot his grappling gun to the top of the apartment building and swung over. Deidre switched off the lighter.

Batman gazed at her in silence. The woman's smirked. "Don't you want to know why I'm not Madge?"

He stood outside of her reach, watching her hands. She was holding something much smaller than a gun in one of them. Her smirk fell into a scowl as she held it out toward him.

"Someone gave me fifty bucks to give you this." The light from the bedroom revealed a folded slip of paper between her fingers. He took it, and then watched her walk back inside grumbling to herself.

She was one of the few residents of the area who hadn't cried over him when they thought he was dead. That didn't surprise him. Most substance abusers hated him more than the mobs. He'd caused a massive spike in the price of their "stuff."

Batman shot his grappling gun at a nearby building and vanished into its shadows. When he'd returned to his usual perch, he read the note. Afterwards, he crumpled the scrap of paper.

. . .

Batman observed the building from another rooftop. No skylight. He crept up to and circled it. He found a crack in one wall. Multiple men inside were complaining he hadn't shown up yet.

There were only two windows. Each were eight feet off the ground and shorter in length than his shoulder width. He stuck a grappling hook into the sill and pulled himself up to look in each. The area of the room he could see was bare except for a man sitting in a chair pulled up to a table. He had a few cards in his hand. From the other window he could only see the same man from the opposite side.

Batman's jaw tightened as he clamped down on the sense of urgency clawing at his nerves. The sky would turn grey in minutes. He had to go through the main entryway. Batman hated using front doors when he wasn't expected.

The voices on the other side sounded even more frustrated. He knelt down and rolled smoke pellets under the door. Then he leaned his shoulder against it and tensed. A hissing sound was followed by shouts. One caught his attention.

"We'll shoot her if you don't show yourself right now, Bat!"

He shoved the door open. There were five men. No hostage was in sight.

He dropped and rolled as gunshots echoed above him. Then he stopped and swept the legs out from under the first two men. He caught one man as he fell and broke the shooter's grip on his gun. Then he stepped on the wrist of the other man's gun hand as he stood up while tossing the table at the last three.

As the table fell back to the floor he threw batarangs at the hands of two shooters in the best position to aim. Then he threw himself at the last mobster holding a weapon. He grabbed the man and twisted his arm until he released the gun. Then he pinned the gunman to the wall. The man glared at him, coughing. Batman waited until his opponent's eyes slid shut. When the man slumped, Batman lowered him to the floor. Then he waited until the smoke dissipated before removing his gas mask.

Batman glanced around, fully taking in the room for the first time. There was a rug on the floor. He kicked it aside. A trap door was beneath it. He clamped down on the sense of urgency again. He closed the door and moved a chair and the table in front of it. Then he pulled the trap door open.

. . .

The basement was almost pitch-black. A few rays of light filtered through holes in the wooden boards. They trickled down to the concrete floor beneath her feet, the way the blood had down her face. The gag had been inside her mouth so long, she began trying to remember what things other than cloth tasted like to fight the boredom. Above her head, the voices of her interrogators had become low monotones. They were bored too.

Suddenly, there was a sound like air leaking from a balloon. The light changed from warm yellow to cold grey as the mutterings became shouts. The shouts turned into gunshots, bodies crashing onto the floorboards, and furniture being tossed around, followed by silence. The gray light turned yellow again. After a few minutes, during which there were some soft sounds of furniture being moved, the hinges of the trap door squeaked. Light fell over the steps leading to the floor. Batman flowed down them like a tall, dark shadow and looked at her.

Madge looked at him with her good eye. One was bruised shut. Dried blood ran down her cheek and chin from a cut on her eyebrow, and another on her bottom lip. There were bruises on both her cheeks.

He strode over to her while removing a finger-length knife from his belt. Then he knelt down and cut the gag, before slipping it off and out of her mouth. She smiled at him.

"How'd I know you'd show up?"

He cut the ropes that bound her wrists to the back of the chair, as he answered. "I don't know . . . considering how late I am." She flexed her hands as she felt the circulation return to them.

"What . . . this? I've had dates worse than this."

"You aren't making me feel better. Where do you hurt the most?"

"Eye, mouth, cheeks . . . used to be my wrists and ankles, but they went numb a while back."

"No pains in your chest or abdomen?"

"They didn't hit me there. They weren't really trying, just waiting for you to show up I think. Bet they're wishing you hadn't right now."

"They'll be unconscious for at least fifteen minutes."

He bent down and cut the ropes that held her legs to those of the chair. She rose to her feet and immediately fell over. He shot up and caught her by the arm, stepped around to her side, and picked her up. She smiled again.

"You're still a perfect gentleman."

"You need to rub the life back into your wrists and feet before trying to stand on your own. I'll guard the room upstairs while you do."

"Guess I can't convince you to rub them for me, huh?"

He put her down in the chair and strode to the stairs without replying. She sighed and began to do as he said. He'd raced halfway up the steps when they heard the door slamming open and furniture being shoved aside.

Madge's head snapped up. Batman's hand went to his belt and gripped a batarang. He'd only pulled it halfway free when the shots rang out. A volley of slugs cut holes in the wood floor above his head. One lodged itself into the step his right foot rested on, less than an inch from the toe of his boot.

Madge's good eye widened. Batman crept back down the steps, making no more noise than a cat. A few creaking floorboards later and the young mob lieutenant appeared above him. He was holding a machine gun. A smirk spread over his face.

"So, you're still in one piece down there. How'd I miss you?"

A woman with olive colored skin and ink-black hair, wearing a long green dress and low heels joined him. A smirk much like the gunman's own came over her face. Sparks of triumph lit her eyes.

"Didn't I say he'd come for her?"

A demon-like shriek echoed through the basement. The grins on the captors' faces only grew at the sound. "Francesca you (Censored)! I'll kill you for this!"

Madge marched into the pool of light at the bottom of the stairs, carrying her high heeled shoes in one hand. The way she carried them made both men think she was going to throw them at the other woman.

Francesca reached up and massaged the mob lieutenant's shoulder. "You'd have to get past the guns of Roberto's men, as well as his own. I think that will become difficult after he kills_ your_ man."

"Every (censored) in the entire district will be after you, you (censored) (censored) traitor! Do you really think Roberto's going to keep you?! Every man other than the Bat abandons us after we meet their needs!"

"Oh I think Roberto's needs will become recurrent. Won't they lover?"

"Sure baby, I'm just full of needs."

Batman looked up at Roberto and tilted his head in Madge's direction. "Let her go. She's of no more use to you."

"No, I don't think so. She's a loose end and, even after killing the Bat, the boss won't let me be his right hand man if I leave loose ends."

"You hear that (censored)! You're as much fish food as me and the Bat!"

The gangster's eyebrows rose. "Wow, Bat, your girl sounds as loyal to you as mine is to me." He wrapped his arm around Francesca. "She really knew what she was talking about, my girl." He kissed Francesca's cheek without lowering the gun. He'd trained it on Batman's face. The vigilante didn't look away from the barrel as he replied.

"Samson might pay you for Madge's return. She's worth a lot to him."

"I already paid Samson for your girl and mine. A good deal when being second in command of the South Side Cartel is on the table."

"You wasted your money."

Francesca's brows knit together. One of the mobster's eyebrows arched. "Really?"

"All she had to do was pretend to be kidnapped," Batman nodded to Francesca, "and I would have done exactly the same."

The olive skin of Francesca's face began to turn white. Her eyes shone dangerously as they bored into the Bat. A grin broke over Madge's face.

"That's right (censored)! You've betrayed the only man who ever cared about all of us!"

The mobster chuckled and took his eyes off the Bat to glance at her.

"That not upset you, Red? Knowing you aren't so special?"

Madge's fists clenched a little tighter, but she didn't look away from Roberto's gaze until Batman spoke.

"What makes you say that?"

Madge started. She and the other two stared at the vigilante. The mobster's brows furrowed.

"You're beginning to confuse me, Bat."

"Someone else might have turned on me. You paid for the woman who held her tongue."

Francesca felt Roberto's muscles tense beneath her touch. She began to back away from him. Her voice came out in a whisper. _"Kill him. Kill him now!"_

The Batman turned his gaze from the man to the woman. "Second-in-commands don't trust anyone, Francesca. If you don't get far enough soon enough, he'll kill you."

The mobster pulled the trigger. Gunshots echoed through the building. Bullets sank into the black chest plate of the Bat-suit. Madge screamed as The Dark Knight collapsed onto the stairs.

The mobster smiled at the splayed form. He aimed the gun at Madge. She stared up into its barrel. His smile widened, and then fell as a click echoed behind his back.

He turned. Francesca had grabbed a colt off one of the men on the floor. Her hands were trembling, but she was aiming the gun well enough to make Roberto's eyes widen. Tears spilled down her face as she spoke.

"You wouldn't, right baby? You and I, we're rising up the ladder together, both of us."

Roberto lowered the machine gun to the floor as he answered. "Of course baby." He plastered a terrified smile onto his face while walking towards her one step at a time with raised hands and open arms. "I would never hurt you."

She gazed at him eyes wide, breath short, tears and sweat rolling down her face. He smiled wider. "Come on lover, put the gun down. It's me. We did good tonight. You did good tonight. We should celebrate."

She lowered the gun. With a movement of his arm a pistol slipped out of Roberto's sleeve and into his hand. A bang filled Francesca's ears as pain radiated through her chest. She raised her gun and shot back. For a moment the air was filled with the blasts of gunshots. Then they both stared at each other, bleeding.

He dove at her. She squeezed the trigger again. Nothing happened. He wrapped his hands around her throat.

"You (censored) I was this close! This close to having it all! You stupid (Cesored)! I should have done this on my own! I'll take you with me! I'll . . .!"

A pair of bright, red pumps smashed into his temple. Roberto Russo fell over and bled out of the six holes in his chest and abdomen. Madge raised the shoes again to swing them at Francesca and paused.

Francesca had crumpled to the floor. Scarlet soaked through the green of her dress. Her wide, dark eyes gazed up at Madge as if she was begging for help. Madge looked down and nearly spat on the other woman.

"Go to Hell!"

"I think . . . I am. I'm sorry . . . Madge. You . . . were right. I just . . . wanted out . . . so bad. I thought he . . . loved me . . . like the Bat . . . loved you."

Madge's scowl melted away. She lowered the shoes. Francesca went on as her voice got weaker.

"If he comes back . . . like he did before . . . tell him . . . I'm sorry."

The light went out of Francesca's eyes. Her struggled breathing ceased. Madge stared for another minute.

Then she turned, walked back down the steps, and sat at the Bat's side. He seemed as still as those she'd left. She whispered down at his face and her eyes filled.

_"Please. Come back like before. Please . . . , please . . ."_

Tears ran down her face as she ran her fingers through her hair. She yanked a few strands while gritting her teeth.

"What am I gonna do? I can't call an ambulance or the cops . . . You said it was even more important in death than life . . ."

Anger burned through her as she stared at the still face below the dark cowl.

"You (censored) don't you dare die now! I didn't take all this (censored) for you, so you could get blown to oblivion!"

She slapped his bare jaw, then drew back and swept her hand forward again. Something shot up and grabbed her wrist. She froze.

He gazed at her out of the corner of his eye. Then he let her go and pushed himself up, wincing. "When I take one or more bullets to the chest, you have permission to slap me."

"You . . . you . . . (censored)! Can you really not die?!"

He stood up. "I'll die someday. I just haven't yet." He looked up toward the top of the stairs. Madge didn't bother to follow his gaze.

"They killed each other."

He winced again. Then he slipped up the steps. She followed behind. He caught sight of the bodies, sprinted over, knelt down, and checked their vitals before drawing back and staring for a long moment, still on his knees. Madge crept up behind him.

"Wasn't this . . . the plan?"

"Unfortunately . . . I didn't have time to come up with a better one. I'd hoped they'd only wound each other."

"She wanted me to tell you, she was sorry."

His shoulders slumped. He kept gazing down at the dead woman. Madge stared at him just as intently. "You can't blame yourself for this. She had him shoot you."

The Bat reached out and closed Francesa's eyes. Then he turned and closed Roberto's. Then he picked up both their guns and looked up at Madge.

"You're certain you don't need immediate medical attention?"

"I feel like (censored) but I'm not as bad off as that, or them."

He rose to his feet, slowly. "Watch the door." He drew a long bag from a pouch in his belt, the way magicians pull impossibly long scarves from their sleeves. He began to move from man to man checking their vitals, rifling their pockets, taking out concealed guns and knives, and throwing them into the bag.

Madge glanced back and forth from the street to him watching the process. Finally, Batman knelt over the machine gun Roberto had dropped. She wondered what he'd do with it. It was about twice the size of the bag. Her eyes widened as he took a glass vial from his belt. She forgot to watch the door as he poured its contents over the weapon's firing mechanism. The metal sizzled and melted.

"You really do hate guns don't you?"

He rose to his feet as if he was being careful not to use too many muscles doing so. He gestured even more carefully around the room. "Especially after nights like these."

Madge glanced around. She didn't say a word. He moved over to her side, took her by the arm with the hand not holding the bag, and stepped out with her, closing the door behind them.

"Let's go."

**This chapter took much longer to complete than I thought it would, so I apologize for the wait. I wanted it to be right and a few things came up in my real life and that of the person I have read my stories before I post them. **

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They also let me know what I did right, so I can do more of it and what I did wrong, so I can fix it.** **Much thanks to my usual reviewers Anonymous Rex and gordios79. **


	9. Chapter 9

**I neither own nor created Gotham, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Alfred Pennyworth, or Dr. Leslie Thomkins. I did create the other characters in this chapter and The Red Light District. **

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

Batman led Madge to his car. He reached up to his belt. The engine roared. The doors and trunk opened. Batman threw the bag into the trunk, slammed it shut, and sat in the driver's seat. Madge slipped into the passenger side. This time there was an armrest between her and the man she was taking a ride with.

Instead of seat belts, two parts of a harness were attached to either side of the chair. They looked like those you saw a pilot use to strap themselves into their planes on television. Madge glanced around at the rest of the inside decor.

"Nice replacement for the one that exploded."

"Buckle up."

When she'd snapped both pieces the halves of the buckles of the harness together, he started the car. The vehicle shot down what should have been a dead end. Madge dug her fingernails into the seat of her chair as her eyes widened.

With a spin of the steering wheel the car turned off into an unused sewer drain. Batman flicked two switches on the dashboard. The headlights turned off.

A screen on the dashboard lit up. A display of some kind of complicated grid or map appeared on the screen. Madge decided to not even attempt to figure it out.

"Where we going, Bat?"

"Someplace safe."

"Ah. Your place?"

"No."

"Oh. Where?"

"A friend's."

"Who?"

"Someone I trust."

Madge sighed. Madge couldn't really know how long they drove in the dark. Even if she's had a watch, she wouldn't have been able to read it in the dim green glow of the screen's display. A dot flashed on the screen while "boop" sounds filled the car interior. Then the car stopped.

Both the driver and passenger doors popped open. A few lights in the car's interior turned on illuminating a concrete floor. Other than their soft luminance, the room was as dark as the inside of a box without air holes.

Batman stepped out of the car. Madge waited for him to appear outside her door before she got out herself. He turned and waved his hand in the air before him. Madge thought he was going to say some secret password with the gesture, but instead his hand seemed to close around something and pull.

Batman let his hand drop to his side. He stood like a statue. Madge jumped when the wall in front of them slid aside. A figure stood silhouetted against a backdrop of warm, yellow light that overwhelmed her eyes.

Batman stepped past the figure into the room beyond. After a few seconds, Madge did to. She continued to blink until her surroundings were no longer blindingly bright. Then she turned to the person who's let them in. She blinked again.

"You?"

"Me. You're one of the girls who visited Jeannette Peterson."

"And you're a doctor."

"Yes, I am. What happened to you tonight?"

Madge turned her widened eyes away and shrugged.

"Some mobsters roughed me up. It happens."

"I'm sure it does. Where do you feel pain?"

"Now I see where Bat gets his bedside manners."

"This will go faster if you answer my questions."

Madge gave the older woman a mild glare and blew out a long breath before replying. "They tied my hands and legs real tight. Then they hit me in the face for awhile. So, yes, all that hurts."

The older woman nodded as she took hold of Madge's forearms and examined her wrists.

"You have swelling, bruising, and raw places where the ropes cut into your skin. Did they tie your ankles as tightly as your wrists?"

"Nope."

"They usually don't. I'll go break out the iodine." Leslie looked up and met Batman's gaze. "You'll accompany me while I do so."

"I'll stay with her."

"No, you won't."

Madge's eyes widened. Her attention turned from the Doctor to the Dark Knight. The Batman's jaw briefly clenched before he followed the older woman. Madge's jaw dropped as he went through the door ahead of the doctor who closed it behind them both.

_Someone was the boss of Batman?_

. . .

"Take it off."

"The victim needs . . ."

"I've done my initial examination of her. Now I need to examine you. Those are bullet indentations in your vest. Take. It. Off."

He did. He even pulled off the undershirt beneath without her asking. The pale skin he revealed was almost covered in deep black and purple bruises. Leslie's eyes narrowed at the sight. Her jaw clenched, and the word she spoke came out as a hiss.

_"Bruce."_

"Never call me that in mask."

She bowed her head, shook it, and pointed at something in a corner of the storage space.

"Lay down on that cot and stay there until I get back."

. . .

Madge looked up as the doctor reappeared in the doorway with a tray, kicking the door shut behind her.

"Where's the Bat?"

"I made him lie down."

Madge's eyes widened again. "What have you got on him?"

Leslie answered while holding a cotton swab to the mouth of an upside down iodine bottle.

"That's privileged."

**Reviews are greatly appreciated and often responded to. They help me know what I did right, so I can do more of it and what I did wrong, so I can fix it.**


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